aromatherapy
by Drosselmeyer's Ancestor
Summary: "Haru smells like chlorine and the ocean."


Haru smells like chlorine and the ocean.

Like cheap chemicals and sand, salt, sun, with a hint of something else, a subtle, near undetectable aroma of soap, hot water.

You have to get close enough to taste him to know.

Makoto knows.

(Though not through tasting, he can't even imagine what Haruka would taste like. He knows through close contact, the blessing he gets for staying so long. It's his prize for effort.)

He's been close enough to smell the underlying soap, the smell of shampoo, the mineral-ly tinge of tap water, clear of chlorine. Nearly close enough to find the real scent of Haru, what lies under the water, so to speak, but he'd really have to taste him to find that out.

(He'd like that, if he were being honest. But honest really isn't what he should be.)

Haruka has been soaked to the core by water of all sources, the smell seeps through his pores and seems to come off of him, but Makoto knows that underneath all of that, there's something else. Something else that he knows exists, because he understands Haruka better than either one of them admit, and he knows something else has to be there. He just can't find it without getting close.

(He tries to, seeks out in those small windows of opportunity what it is, but. It seems to be the kind of thing he can only find after he's tried it, something he has to be even more familiar with to appreciate in full.)

If he could just nip the back of Haruka's neck, just a second, he'd know, he's sure of it. One little taste, and it'd come to him. But he can't do that. Friendship is sacred, and Haruka needs him, though he'll never say that out loud and Makoto knows that it's a little presumptuous of him to say himself.

(Really, they need each other.)

But he wants a taste. He wants to know what lies underneath minerals and soap, find the original scent, have it memorized.

(He's terribly needy though. If he got one taste, he'd want more, Haruka is addicting in the strangest way, like a bitter drink that leaves a sweet aftertaste. A pain to swallow down, but worth it by the end. He'd crave for more, just like he always has when it comes down to Haru.)

He leans across the spare futon in Haruka's room, reaches over towards his bed, fingers ghosting through the air, barely missing skin. He hovers over his face, his neck, follows the lines of Haruka's body with his fingers and traces his shape. He doesn't touch, but the little space between his fingers and Haruka's skin wavers, like it's caught in a heatwave.

The night is blue and humid, as summer usually is. There's a light rain, more like a sprinkle. The bugs outside are alive with noise, but muted by the window.

(He thinks, once. Only once. He'll never have to know. He can hold back. Once would be more than enough.)

(He's lying to himself.)

Carefully, quietly, covers rustling, he presses his mouth onto Haruka's skin and feels a thrill roll up his spine, a pulse in his mouth. His lips are against the skin of his neck. Haruka's pulse is a steady one-two, and Makoto takes a lick, small, almost like a cat.

(He taste like  
water and sweat and salt and something so undoubtedly Haru, rich and unique  
bitter too, and hot.)

(He wonders what his mouth would taste like. Probably mint. At worst, mackerel.)

He draws back slowly, a feather falling in motion, when Haruka's arm catches the nape of his neck, a fatally soft touch brushing against the edge of his hair and skin. Makoto stills.

(Haru's eyes are open, and there's no trace of sleepiness in them. Makoto thinks he's ruined his entire life.)

He opens his mouth to babble, but Haruka leans up at the same second, and Makoto wonders if he's just dreaming, or if Haruka can suddenly sleep with his eyes open, because

(Is it real? Can he really think that Haru wants this? Is Haru awake? Does he crave the way Makoto does, for contact, to know what the real taste is—)

The night is blue, and humid. There is a sound of water hitting pavement, and another sound of skin sucking on skin, parting with a wet crackle. The noise is muted by the window.

Neither closes the curtain.

(They're busy learning the taste.)


End file.
